


Mandos Servant

by Inthebeginning



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inthebeginning/pseuds/Inthebeginning
Summary: The battle of Helms Deep is marked by the arrival of the elves of Lothlorien - but even for elves it is a traumatic event; to decease - even if they do not ever truly die. A second chance to a servant of Mandos and one given to Legolas Thranduilion, before he sails West.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	Mandos Servant

«Lad, you got someone at home?” Gimli asked, the sun had descended beyond the Horizon long ago and all that was left of the light of day, was a dim fire, an elf, a man and a dwarf. His axe was grasped between his thighs, whilst he sharpened the blade, preparing for another assault. He had washed the blade in a stream a few miles north of their camp, the blood colouring the little river black – it was of Ork, not men. And therefore, Gimli had washed away the blood gladly and happily noted that his blade was not nicked or cut and underneath the black coat still glimmered like the ashes it had once upon been forged in.

Strider rested against a boulder, on the other side of camp, his eyes glooming gray in the dark. Legolas knew, to not mistake the seeming relaxed of the ranger for given, he could shoot up in a second if needed. But now it was not needed and therefore Legolas trusted his friend the ranger and rested himself and let his elven ears grow duller against the subtle wind that blew. He threw a glance at the Dwarf, who looked in his thoughts all on his own.

“I have a lass at home, beautiful one too, ya know. Round and fine proportioned.” Gimli spoke into the fire, Strider chuckled for he knew of Gimli’s dwarf at home, of whom he spoke readily to the ranger and praised her beauty and bewilderedness in all the metals.

“Is her beard equally as long as yours?” He asked mockingly nonetheless, for men did not like their women hairy as dwarves did and Aragorn was no exemption. Gimli hummed but did not retaliate, knowing that the mockery was not ill featured and that he would lose more of his dignity if he did indeed take it for more than it. In company of mortal men and immortal elf, he had learned many weeks ago, that mockery was great and illfeaturedness little.

When Legolas had meet Dwarfs, he had taken them all for daft, with their dirty looks and the small but brim posture and their lack of manners. Quite simply he had frowned upon them. It was commonly a feat accepted by all of his kindred, for elves were fair and tall as young trees and dwarves were little and sturdy as rocks. But Legolas had realised that one could not compare rocks and trees and therefore he needn’t frown upon the dwarf.

The fire flickered, almost as if it were responding to Legolas memories – he had thousands of them, gathered behind the dark brows he called his own. Many of them were gay for the elven folk did love their feasts and tales and stories – the more the merrier and the more glory there was, the more elves were struck to listen. 

But now – after months and months, which were only a brim in his life, a blink of his eyes, he had learned that they were not daft – or at least not Gimli. He may not be the quickest in mind, but the fiercest most certainly and loyal as a mule – a good companion to fight with.

They were rare to come by.

His last had disappeared – Tauriel – the chief guard, she had wandered into the woods and never returned after her lover had died – ironically it had also been a dwarf. Sometimes Legolas thought, that if one forgave the immortal pride of elves and the mortal stubbornness of dwarves, they were not the most ill featured of matches made upon the face of the earth. Sometimes, nonetheless, Tauriel’s departure still ached Legolas, for he had loved her dearly and it pained him to had watch her go – her strides fierce, her weapons draped before his feet and her hair fluttering barely in the wind. She had never come out of the forest again. What had become of her, he did not know – nor did he wish to know for a matter of fact.

“Ey lad?” Gimli reminded the elf of his question and Legolas shook his shoulders. They were tense – not from fighting, he had not done a particular lot of that lately, but from the running and hiding and the agitation. Chasing after Orks may seem straightforward, yet it was not, and Legolas feared, that there were Uruk-Hai mingled amongst the pack. He would never get used to that, the agitation – not matter how long he walked this earth and no matter how many battles he slayed.

A smile escaped Legolas lips, his hands etching towards the bow he called his own. _She_ had crafted it, her hands enchanting it with every carving she had set upon the ash wood. Yet she had not been the one to present it to him – given it had been by the lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, but he had known – upon his fingers grazing the wood, who had placed the enchantments upon the wood.

“There is, Dwarf.” He did not call him by his name, even if he would call him his friend – Dwarf was a better word for who he was, simply because Gimli was the only dwarf Legolas knew and therefore the epitome of his race. Gimli did much the same favour to Legolas, for he called him elf most of the time. Gimli’s eyes gloomed and Legolas did not see, because his eyes were pinned to the wooden bow he held between his hands. He looked upon his friend, who’s eyes urged him to tell. And so, Legolas obliged.

“Who is she, Legolas, you never spoke of her?” Strider demanded as well, looking rather startled by the confession, for Legolas had never spoken about her to him. He smiled once again, placing the bow on his knees and looking into the skies.

“I have never – that is true, for she is not my wife, nor my betrothed.” Legolas paused, scanning the firmament. “She is called by the name Aaren.”

“Aaren is not an elvish name, my friend.”

“Oh, she is – she is. Aaren lives at the court of Galadriel, in Lothlorien, although once upon a time she lived in Mirkwood – it was where I meet her first.”

“But you did not see her, when we visited the city of light.”

“She was not there – Aaren is a – what men and dwarves would call a witch.”

“A witch lad?”

“A witch – a witch and a guard of the golden forest. She was posted on the outskirts of the forest the day we came and left the forest shortly after to visit Imladris.”

“So how is that lady of yours, lad?”

“You will have to see for yourself, my friend, I could not describe her, not even if I tried for a hundred years.” Legolas chuckled lightly and Gimli laughed a rough laugh.

“Well Lad, you gotta show me then someday. Although I don’t think Lorien will welcome me ever again.” He pondered, retaking sharpening his blade.

.

The horn of Lothlorien cried mercilessly in the valley of Helms deep. Gimli’s friend could not descend fast enough, his blond hair cascading behind him, as he flew down the stairs and into the courtyard, the silver uniforms of the elves of the golden forest neatly arranged side by side. Haldir flicked back his coat, Legolas greeting him with the manners he deserved.

I looked at him under my hood, proud that he still carried the bow I had created for him so many years ago and yet he had only received it a few short months ago. Galadriel had offered it to him in my absence, knowing what it had meant, knowing that the bow carried more than one rune connected to Mandos upon its pale wood.

He wore a gash over his cheek, his hair filthy and his forehead smeared with dust and yet he was as beautiful as he had always been – as handsome as the Mirkwood had once been. His eyes wandered over the soldiers, flickering over me – not noticing, I could not stilt a small chuckle, the magic I had lain over myself hiding my true figure from his eyes. It had been necessary, for after all I was a witch and witches did not mingle well amongst men. I had learnt that much from my son many years ago.

I had no doubt that he could simply tell me apart by my posture – but that would be too easy.

He was clad in leather – typical. He disliked the firm feel of metal on his shoulders – like any elf of Mirkwood. Wandling amongst the deepest woods, they preferred the sombre colours of leather over those of flashing steel. 

Haldir dismissed the formation with a wink of his hand, the flicker almost unreadable – for anyone who did not see it daily. I stepped out – towards the elf who stood next to a dwarf. I did not know him. Legolas hated dwarfs, yet he did not seem to hate this one. I snuck past a group of men, who grazed me with hostile looks – I wondered if they would always do that. Maybe it was because we lived eternally, and they did not. I shimmied my way past them and before his feet, lifting the hood of the blue coat that wrapped around my silver uniform and the chest plate.

At first, he did not recognise, or maybe he thought I was a ghost, but the warmth that streamed through his eyes and the hand extended to me, reminded me that he did know me and had not forgotten. I grasped for the hand, closing my clad fingers around it and reminded myself to not topple him over and that Legolas was very much the only prince of the woodland realm. I fulfilled my curtsey and his hand snuck to my waist, resting there comfortably in the small of it, as his eyes spoke of a thousand things and yet of none.

“Ay Lad, is that your lady?” The Dwarf asked and I frowned amicably at the word lad, exchanging a glance with Legolas. If the Dwarf was allowed to call Legolas a lad, he must truly be his friend.

“Cin mel norn?”[1] The blond elf smiled, looking at the small dwarf besides him, who seized me up. I made a step closer towards Legolas, who’s hand was tugging on my waist quite ardently. I placed a hand upon his shoulder, resting it comfortably.

“Lu lim I Rad.”[2] The blond elf replied, his brown eyes sparkling over my face.

“Aight lad, I dine understand a word.” He complained with a raised eyebrow. I stepped away from the elf and towards the dwarf, placing a hand onto his left shoulder, fluttering my eyelashes down and coming down far enough for him to repeat the greeting equally. He froze flabbergasted.

“Is that not how Dwarves greet?” I asked concerned, if I had forgotten already, but the red bearded dwarf shook his head and raised his hand to my own shoulder, repeating the gesture rather irritated.

“My name is Aaren.” I dropped my hand away, standing up straight again, waiting for the red headed’s answer. It did not come.

“What is your name? Friend of Legolas?”

“Gi-Gimli, mistress Aaren.” He paused, looking at me with big eyes, wide as the trunk of many trees that grew in Lorien. “So, you are Legolas’ lady?” He asked, after seizing me up completely almost stripping me of my uniform.

“You are mistaken, I am not his lady, he is my lord.” I chuckled, throwing a dirty look at the blond, one that only he knew. “He would have to ask for my hand first.” I replied, looking at Legolas interesting companion, who had a wide grin hidden under his beard, beads embroidering the little braids woven into it. Helms deep was a dark and cold place, the water dripping down and drowning the entity of the fortress into a damp shithole. The men looked scared and too young, most of them either too old to fight or too young to die. Their arms propped against the slimy walls, the fires lit with damp wood and smoking, burning in the eyes. Most men at leaned against a wall, or on top of one, coats wrapped heavily around their figures to keep out the cold. I diverted my eyes back to Legolas.

“Excuse us Gimli, Legolas do you have time?” I asked the blond, who nodded and stepped away from his own wall, the eyes of more than one man following him with a despaired look. He motioned up to the first wall, where few guards were promenading, and it was relatively secluded. I followed him up the slippery stairs and wondered how many men had fallen down the steps into their own personal misery, how many had cracked their skulls or necks or just a bone simmering down the slimy cobbles.

He stopped at the top, between two guards, the stars were dim tonight, speaking of war and bloodshed – I could feel it in the air, but then it was no surprise, we were here and where soldiers went, bloodshed was to take place. The sword besides my hips had once weighed heavy – many, many decades ago – but now it did no longer and was to me what a hammer was to a blacksmith.

He did not speak, and I did not know what to say.

He had a calmness about him, that he had carried all too often and that I wished for him to never have to carry again. The calmness before the storm. His hand etched towards me, placing itself on my hips once more, wrapping around my waist. I was not pressed against his chest, but I wish I were, for his chest meant comfort and warmth and steadiness – but this was war, and he could offer neither. His other hand flicked a bit of hair over my shoulders, so that my neck was bare to the cold air and his fingers, that stroke over the pulse of it.

“It is not I that need to ask for your hand, but you to ask for mine.” He said, watching the arteries under my pale skin, as if it was the only thing standing between his sanity and complete and utter madness.

I chose not to reply. He had asked, before he had left for Mirkwood. I had declined – because – I did not know why. Well, I did - because I did not want to carry another husband to the grave, but that felt like a stale excuse most days. I had already carried one, on my shoulders, torn to shreds and bedded in a casket of velvet. He had left me behind with a son, to raise and take care of. My heart was all mended together now – and my son grown up. But I would not carry another husband to the grave. I could not bear it.

I was glad – that my son had chosen the career of a scholar and not of a soldier, for that meant he was safe and hidden away in the depths of Lothlorien. It may be a selfish wish, yet one that every mother shared.

He taught the children of Lothlorien – not that there were many, a few, not enough. At least it kept him away from the battlefield. He had dragged me through the first years of my husband’s death and healed me back together.

The sun rattled through my coat, leaving behind the stale stench of the fortress. I was not home inside of cobbled stone. I had not liked it in Mirkwood, and I certainly did not like it here.

His armour moved under the rhythm of his thumb, urging me to touch and let my hand glide over the smooth leather that was hard as rocks. It was a posse – the leather – for really it was as tightly pressed, that sometimes it was even better protection than steel.

“How have you fared?” I asked, draping my hand over his shoulders and glide over his triceps, caressing the taunt muscles through his spider silk shirt. It was inappropriate – in such public setting, him and I both knew, but something about men always crawled underneath my skin. Maybe it was their short lives and the impulsiveness with which they made each and every decision they held – or the passion they portrayed in the simple way of holding themselves. It over boarded into my own soul and spirit.

A bitter laugh escaped the fair elf. Oh, he could be bitter – so bitter. Not often, he had been bitterer before she had died – before _Tauriel_ had died. Had carried enough bitterness inside of him for the entire world. He had loved her – I had never been quite sure to what extent – if she had been his mate, but he had loved her deeply enough to cast away that bitterness.

It was not his in the first place.

“We lost a companion – since Imladris, I am sure you know of it, shortly after we came into the golden forest. I left a letter with your son. He looked well – worn out but well. Now we are here – and as the king of Rohan says – the brink of mankind.” Legolas laughed small, his hand around my waist almost clawing. I could not help my own but to escape to his bare skin on his neck.

“It is not the brink of elves.” I replied – the thoughts on his mind obvious, even now, scarring over the old and the brittle, the young and naive. He snorted.

“Strider already knows – he is willing to die with them. I hope he does not – he is the king of Gondor after all, his death would render all of it irredeemable.” Legolas paused and pulled me closer, as if he wanted to crawl into my skin. My hand etched onto his cheek, holding it there, a finger slipping away and brushing over his lips. “Much the same if the ringbearer died.” I inclined my head, agreeing. I knew little of the faring of the world and yet the Lady Galadriel had not kept it from me for I would carry the dead to Mandos hall, and she did not bear keeping the secret of death away.

“I wish I had the eye. But I cannot see the paths of people – only the past life.” I escorted souls – to death, into dying. I did not wield the power of foresight – only of looking back. I had carried my husband across the veil and onto the river, burning his body and leaving his soul behind.

When the battle was over – my work would have just begun.

A smile ghosted across Legolas lips. “I am glad you are here.”

“You have no plan of dying prince – I do not wish to bring the news to the king of his only son being dead.” I explained shallowly and yet it had not been what I wanted to say. I wanted to say that I wanted to marry him, wandle the face of the world with him, to strive into battle by his side and go to Valinor by his side. But then that was something I did not say – not today or ever – not until the Sauron was dead or the world burning in flames. Legolas smiled coyly.

“I hope it is more than that. I had no plan of dying. I am waiting for a proposal.” He stated, tearing away his lean body from mine and leaving me standing in the cold, his steps bouncing elegantly and upright – as it was fit for the warrior he was. A sole laugh escaped my throat, his fingertips still burning over my skin, leaving behind the trace of sweet desire. I followed my commander.

I had long served under the guards of the woodland realm – learnt and protected. Been commanded by Legolas and the Tauriel – gone to war with my king and his Prince. Until I had met my late husband – Rumil – a Guard of the Golden Forest. When I had first saw him, it had all been clear. I had known in that moment – and followed him back, leaving everything behind. That had been eons ago. I had born a son, Baldin, three summers before he had lost his life in a patrol. That had been almost three hundred years ago.

Legolas pushed open the doors to the great hall of the fortress, where the king was standing at the end of a wooden table, throning over a map and soldiers, Strider to his right, an elder man to his left. The king of Gondor advising the king of Rohan. I could not recall when that had happened lastly. Haldir rested besides, sitting on the bench, the dwarf opposite of his. Legolas strode towards the table and seated beside Gimli.

I had nothing to fare there, so I stepped away and out of the great doors, leaving behind my lover and stepping towards my troops. My work had only just begun, for there was fear spreading amongst them. Elves were not made for battle, for they never forgot the horrors of it and did not have the grace extended upon them of death – the circle endlessly continued, and the sorrows walked with them, bundled in their pack for eternity.

I placed the bowl of silver water before my knees, so that the moon may shine upon it half and the other half be lit by a torch. I bent over the bowl, placing sprouts of winder daisy and Athelas in the container, dropping a gulp of my own blood into the mixture, humming the melody of creation, the song draining through my veins, humming in the castle beneath me, resonating in the feet marching up to me – my blond companion dropping to his knees before me, placing his hands on mine and humming the melody with me, calling it to life. I liked Cirdan’s help – he was no servant of Mandos, nonetheless he had a certain connection to his halls and made the liquid sing.

_Vàre, nurture, cui, aist, sì fea **[3]**_

As it resonated through the earth, bouncing off the trees, I placed my thumb in the silver glooming substance and drew a circle on his forehead, leaving behind nothing, but glooming shortly and sinking into his skin. He inclined his head thinkingly, the blondness of his hair – so typical for any elf of Lothlorien, shimmering in the dark light of the fallen day. I placed the same drawing on my own forehead and stood up, my feet carrying me down the tower and to our troops.

I stepped to the first elf, who readily offered his forehead to me, letting the silver sink into his skin, thanking me softly. Another thanked nervously and the third not at all. Haldir bowed before me and Aragorn stepped towards me, his eyes asking me for the same protection, I had granted upon our own soldiers. I bowed to the Dwarf.

“Master Gimli, may I?” I asked, he looked more than suspicious.

“What is that? Elvish potions?”

“Yes, Master Gimli, it offers protection and strength and a clear sight. I took it myself as well as Aragorn – do not worry, I do not wish to poison you. I do not think Legolas could bear it.” I smiled upon him. He did not look convinced yet, when an older man approached me.

“Miss, I heard what ye jest tald the dwarf. May ey get that too.” He asked, sceptical yet inclined to gain that little bit of additional protection. Men were interesting creatures – scared more than any other creature yet also braver than any other.

“Of course, it is my pleasure.” I painted the circle onto his forehead, speaking a small prayer with it, giving him the impression of holiness and completion. Gimli eyes up the old man and decided that if he had not fallen dead to my feet, it was probably safe. I bowed down, resting my thumb upon his forehead and painting the circle.

“Master Gimli, present me your axe, will you?” I asked, painting three runes upon the wooden steel, leaving it shimmering in the night, breaking the light. He thanked me, watching the glower with large eyes and leaving me behind.

A younger human stepped towards me – asking for the same blessings, his face hard and harsh. And before long, each and every one desired a little bit of that colour that I painted circles with. I smiled – they did still believe in witchcraft or as whatever they saw it.

A boy sat crouched against a slimy wall, his face drawn into terror. He trembled, the helmet upon his head too big to hold onto him, dropping into his eyes if he did not hold onto it. The axe in his hand was dull, I could see it from here, it did not sparkle – did not even shimmer. He would not be able to cut his way through flesh. But it was not the weapons or the tremble or the helmet that drew me towards that boy – who was barely 15. It was the way his eyes scooted around the courtyard, how he looked as if he was a trapped animal.

I crouched down before him, placing the bowl before his feet. He gazed upon it, and I could remark the soft trails of tears over his cheeks. I dropped my head to the side, mustering the boy, who stopped his tears and tried placing a fierce look on his face – he failed miserably. I dunked my thumb in the liquid, offering it to him, he did not move.

Gently I lifted the helmet off his head, exposing the dirty hair and the unwashed face to my bare eyes. I wiped away a little bit of the grime with the edges of my cloak, cleaning his forehead gently and leaving behind a piece of cleaner skin. He vibrated violently. I painted the circle, and offered a hand to the young boy, who stared at it hesitantly, before taking it up and looking at me.

“Thank you.” I stated, pressing his hand gently, hoping that he would at least drain a little bit of energy and will power from my own confidence. The young recruits sometimes looked like that – before their first battle.

But they had chosen the path of warfare and they had been trained – they knew how to wield a sword and defend themselves – that boy did not.

“What is your profession?” I asked, scrunching my brows because I wondered if profession was truly the right word. I did know Standard – learnt it with my son when he had decided to become a scholar. Nonetheless sometimes words were a little bit flurry.

“I am a farmer Miss.” He pressed out, looking even more terrified than before, his eyes dropping with tears and sweat. He pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes, a small hiccup leaving his tendre body.

“What is it farmer?” I asked gently and wept in my heart for the mother who lost her child that day – and most likely her husband would go with him, lost forever.

“I am scared of dying Mis-Miss.” He replied, shaking with tears.

“Shush – do not fret, I will be with you along the way – you are not alone.” I pressed his fingers harder, giving him a firm smile and dropping them, picking up his helmet and replacing it on top of his head, making sure it stayed on properly, for I could not tell him the sweet and gentle lie of life.

I picked up the bowl and stood up, throwing a last glance at the young boy who would not survive the night and as much as I wanted to save him, he was not mine to speak over. I was glad that I was only a simple elf and no king – I did not decide over the fate of my people and I was glad for it. The compassion, nonetheless, rested heavy on my shoulders as I stepped away from the boy, leaving him behind with his own commanders and stepping up into the castle, looking for every last man and elf to bless.

“Is it truly witchcraft?” The king of Rohan approached me, watching the almost empty bowl. I chuckled and raised my thumb, he held out his hand, stopping me, waiting for the answer. So cautious these mortals were, I thought and mustered him carefully. 

“Yes and no. I am a witch – that is for sure, but it is not witchcraft. More two or three medicinal plants combined and a little bit of praying, combined with hope. It is a ritual conducted for aeons, as old as the earth itself. It helps.”

“Why should I trust you?” He asked and I shook my head in laughter for I had not asked for his trust and he seemed to think it of my utmost desire.

I frowned, chewing my lips, looking at the old king, who looked so tired and hateful. “That your majesty, is left to the gods – but I would have little interest in poisoning you, after all we are going to battle, and you are general.” I spoke then to soothe his soul and not extend the arrogance that my people were renown for upon him.

He nodded then and accepted the ritual, sinking into his skin as well. “You are a witch?” He asked, still not fully convinced that I was not indeed some foul woman, but then I was an immortal and an elf. But then how would men trust elves, we lived aeons, and they only decades. They did not understand the gift extended by Illuvatar upon them, even the Numenoreans had grasped for the feat of the Firstborn and these were only mere normal men.

“I am – but not in the way you may think. I carry the dead across the veil, bring them to the halls of Mandos, nothing more and nothing less. I do the curtsy that no man, elf or dwarf has to die alone. I would suppose mankind would call me a priestess. But the word that is used for my kind in Quenya has never been translated to the common tongue. Therefore, witch is the most suitable.”

“What is Quenya and who is Mandos? I have never heard those names.”

“Quenya is the high language of the elves, Mandos is the master of the dead, wandling the halls of the dead. He is my master.” I explained with a kind look on my face and extending the grace of Mandos protection upon a young boy who looked frightened and terrified. The king was a hard man and I wondered if he had always been like this – so hard and cold and suspicious. He stepped away, past the boy who followed his king and left me alone, standing in the hallway of the fortress, empty with no man in my way. Maybe the long days had made him so and I wished for him, that he may gain softness back in the days of the dead.

My bowl was almost empty. There was one last person to find. Wandering the corridors, staling into the darkness, I found Legolas sitting in a room, the door opened, his figure leaned against the wall and resting upon a bed.

“You found me.” He stated as I closed the oaken door behind me, that creaked and protested and yet I slammed it shut.

“You waited for me.” I stated obviously, striding across the room and into his lap, closing my lips over his and stealing away a cold kiss. The bowl rested against the floor; the last droplets reserved for my lover. His hands wrapped around my neck instantly and he flipped me onto the mattress, burying me under his body, resting between my legs, his armour rubbing against mine harshly, but it was a good sensation and therefore I did not mind greatly. His hair dropped around me, covering us in a cascade of dirty blond. His tongue played with my lips, his teeth grazing against my lips, urging me to open them, so he could taste me. I obliged, sighing at his taste. As much as I had hated the closedness of the caves of Mirkwood, I had always loved the forest and he tasted like it. It was no wonder – Legolas was its reincarnation. He had been born underneath the trees of the Eryn Lasgalen. A smile drippled over my lips as his hands found his way onto my legs, pulling my thighs into a steeper angle to allow him to rest more comfortably between them. I wrapped them around his lower body, pulling him closer to feel his middle pressed against mine, wishing that we had time – but we did not and all I could hope for was that tomorrow we would.

His lips wandered down my cheek and onto my jaw, peppering light kisses, before descending upon my neck and kissing the veins and arteries he had inspected only hours ago, biting down on them and leaving me pant for air and moaning into his hair, making me pull it to not lose myself in the heat that coiled through my body and collected in my middle. I could feel his own breath beating steadily against the side of throat, pulsating with me as he placed sweet kisses upon my skin. His hand found its way to my chest plate and the ties holding it together, undoing them and peeling it off, resting it on the floor besides us.

I arched my back as he bit onto a sensitive piece of skin, under my shirt, just over my collarbone. He stopped, his hand around my back, holding me upright stroking soft circles over the cloaked skin, he smiled against my skin, pressing a last kiss against it before scooting back up, his hand, that had before cradled the skin of my legs now framing my face, brushing back any dark hair dropping over my face, stroking the strands back into formation.

“We do not have time.” He stated, his eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his forehead against mine, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “Forgive me.” He smiled sadly, pressing a chaste kiss onto my lips that left me lit a fire. I pressed my own lips against his shoulders and smiled into them, inhaling the scent of woods and lint.

“Oi, lad, lassie!” Gimli’s shocked voice sounded over from the door, that he had urged open, the red headed dwarf looking more than disshelved at the view. Legolas raised a brow, looking at his friend questioningly. “Ey didne want to see that!” I placed a kiss onto his soft cheek, before pressing him away from me and rumbling off the bed, picking up the bowl by the entry way, Legolas sat upright on the bed now, his elbows rested on his knees, his eyes darting with me, as I stepped between his legs and painted the circled runes over his forehead.

“What is it my friend?” Legolas asked Gimli, who was still standing there uncomfortably red and I could not help but a gentle chuckle escaped my lips and I smiled upon the simple feelings of the dwarf. He scratched the back of his head, his fingers groping underneath the helmet.

“Ahhh, formation.” It was time – I bestowed a look upon Legolas, his hand angling over to mine, pressing it slightly, before stepping up and pressing a kiss onto my lips, disregarding the fact that Gimli still had the entire view to call his own, the Dwarf grunting disgusted.

He stepped away and out of the door, his long strides carrying him away, Gimli following with his shorter legs, not after firstly saluting my way and bidding farewell, for even if we had startled him, he had manners and I regarded that highly. I followed Legolas figure out the door, his lit posture gliding over the cobbled stone. I picked my armour off the floor, a sweet smile resting upon my face as I fastened it back onto my body and pulled my cloak into position.

It was irony, sitting amongst slimy walls and dark corridors, lit by torches that ambered more than they gave light – and I smiled happily. Simply because the elf I wanted had kissed my lips and was walking amongst my own.

.

And when the work of the others ended – mine had just begun. I wandled amongst the corpses, placing my hand on each and every one, the sun burning onto my skin gladly as I did my melancholic task. I had escorted Haldir today, a sting flickering through my body. Orophin kneeled beside his fallen brother, holding onto his limp figure and streeling away the locks of blond scattered over his slim face, wiping away the little splashes of suage from the exploded dam, that had covered everything into a black grime. Besides him lay Tarlanc, he had walked across on his own, long gone when I had found his body, mingled amongst that of Orks and Uruks, tangled to shreds. Someone had done him the curtsey of draping his coat over the missing leg.

The next in line was the little boy I had only consolidated hours ago, painted his head and sealed his death. A woman sat crouched besides him, weeping and holding onto him. She clawed into his torn tunic, that was now darker and bloodier than once beige and sturdy. The gash across his face set view to the brain dripping out of it. Why had no one covered it? Swiftly I dropped next to him and placed a hand upon his chest, searching for his soul, lingering partially still in his body.

_I smiled, the light I represented offering a small thing to hold onto, the rays covering and protecting in the darkness that was before the veil. Men entered the realms of Mandos just the same, only other parts of it. He would never emerge on the island of Valinor – nonetheless he would find his peace in those halls._

_‘I promised.’ I offered to the frightened boy, who’s face lit up and a scared smile spread across his lips._

_‘Am I dead?’ He asked, looking around in the darkness, looking for – I did not know what for._

_‘Yes – you are.’ His eyes dropped sadly, slouching behind closed lids._

_‘Come, I will escort you to the halls of my lord, where you will sit with everyone else and feast – for now.’ I offered him consolidation and his hand entwined with mine, letting me lead him to the gates of Mandos hall’s. I bowed before his small figure and smiled._

_‘Good luck.’ I wished and disappeared._

My hand dropped away, and I unclasped my coat, resting it over the body of that boy, the woman clutching onto him weeping even further.

“He is with his ancestors.” I offered consolidation and wondered what his name had been. But then asking would be against my own rules. Asking made it personal and I could not allow that.

I made my ways further down the rows, placing my hand on hearts and heads and lungs, beneath legs and under arms and hands, looking for any lost souls, taking them to the other side of the veil. The more scared someone was of death, the less likely it was to make it over the veil on their own. Today I found many souls.

.

I pulled on the red wool, soft and gentle on the skin, tied by the sides to make it fit the waist snugly, a white underdress underneath, shimmering out the bottom and giving me a human look, if the ears had not been. I liked it quite a bit, even if the wool was rather scratchy and it was nowhere near to what I would wear in Lorien. I placed a belt of golden leaves around my hips and left my hair drip over the sides of my face freely, leaving the straight darkness its path. The wedding band around my neck disappeared into the folds of my dress, I had taken it from my finger and placed upon a chain after Rumil had died.

“Master Gimli.” I exclaimed, seating myself besides the grimly looking dwarf, who’s face lit up a little bit. He was seated between a few men and I would have never foresighted, that he would sit comfortably next to an elf and yet be bewildered by men.

“Mistress Aaren, may I introduce you to Hama and his men?” He presented, the elder man nodding and seizing me up, he had aged more than a little and I was struck by the mortality of his, for I had not seen men in many yens.

“When will you see your wife again, Grimdan?” The man next to Hama wagered his beer.

“I don’t know, hopefully soon, I miss the barns.”

“Yeee, miss mine too. Wonderful children they are, I do not wager you have children Mistress?” Gimli asked but I knew his words were to make conversations for mortals could not sit days in silence and not speak – time ran steadily through the glass of time and what they had left, must be used.

“I do, Master Dwarf, a son, but he is long grown up now.” I smiled upon my astute companion.

“Aye, ye got a son with the bloody elf and he enne gonna marry ye!”

“Oh no, Master Gimli, Baldor is from my late husband Rumil.” I corrected him gently.

“Yee married?”

“I was married, Rumil died a long time ago. But he left me behind a wonderful son.” I stated, looking at Hama and decided that I should practice myself in the simple art of making conversation for maybe I might never see them again.

“How old are your children Master Hama?”

“Three and five, mam’, rather small still, sent them away when war started ragging in the capitol.”

My lover appeared besides me and slipped onto the bench, I slid my hand onto his thigh sneakily and felt his muscle tense underneath and a coy smile appear on his face. He was clothed in grey silver and his hair washed yet I could see the tiredness of his eyes and all I wished for too was a bed and his body coiled around mine and no dwarfs interrupting.

“You are speaking about children?”

“You got them yourself Master Elf?”

“No, no children, but I saw many grow up.”

“If I may ask, Mam’ and Master Elf, how old are you?”

“Oh, forgive me, you cannot ask to own up to my age, I am too old to admit anything.” I frowned and looked for the fitting expression that mortals used all too much – or so it was written in many a book.

“Three Millenia.” Legolas replied with no great discomfort. Estel seated himself besides Legolas, looking all cleaned up and brushed and not like a strider anymore, although the rogue wrinkles around his eyes would never disappear again, I feared and for a while I was sad for Mistress Arwen had chosen the same path as he.

“She is Legolas lady?” He asked Gimli and I felt a smile spread over my face. And I could not recoil a smile from my lips for Estel was widely known amongst the elves of Lorien and lady Arwen had spoken a great deal of her mortal lover.

“Aye.” He bowed his head and inclined. “She was married before Aragorn.” He added as if it were the most weighted thing in the world. And maybe it was for a dwarf for I did not know much about them nor did I wish to know. My only concern were the halls of Mandos and the trees and the wind of the world. But that was not something one said amongst mortals.

“Legolas, tell us, how did you come to such a beauty? How did you meet?” He turned towards me, inspecting closer. I felt like I was a piece of meat belonging to Legolas. My discomfort wavering off me, Legolas hand draped over mine, as I clenched my fingers into the muscles of his thigh.

“I have known Legolas ever since I had been a little girl and he General of the king’s army. My father was a Marshall, and it was only natural for me to become a guard of his majesty. I served a great deal under Captain Darthor, before leaving for Lothlorien to marry my husband who served the guard of the Golden Forest.”

“I carried her around more than once as a baby.” Legolas added gleefully. “I grew fond of her when I visited Lorien after the battle of the five armies.”

“Ohh yess, my old father remembers that quite fondly.” Gimli added, looking melancholically over his beer. Legolas twirled it between his fingers, looking at it sceptically. I had only learned what it was a few days prior, sitting amongst the men of Rohan, where one had explained the alcoholic beverage to me, but not before mustering me with a great deal of discomfort.

.

Aragorn watched the two of them contesting for their drinking.

“You were married before and your husband died – yet you did not vanish off this earth.”

“My son kept me in this world – he mended my heart, Illuvatar offered me a second chance. My husband was the first I carried across the veil, he offered me life in treaty for offering my aid to those who died, for no one deserves to die alone. It is a small price to pay.” I folded my arms and watched Gimli babble about bearded dwarf women.

“Is there someone waiting at home for you?” I smiled at my companion and I already knew the answer, yet I hoped it not to be true for Arwen had not decided yet and I wished for her to leave behind mortal lover.

“Arwen, the daughter of Elrond, but she is now long gone to Valinor. I will not see her again – at least not in this life.” He paused, his eyes following a shieldmaiden of Rohan. She was the niece of the king, yet her name I had forgotten. “Why did you not go to Valinor after your son was grown up?”

“I love my husband – but my child is bound to middle earth and I – I could not leave him alone. Besides, I have Legolas, my husband has died a long time ago – Legolas is here – now.”

“What is you ever go to Valinor and your husband is waiting, and you bring with you Legolas?” I chuckled at the question; it must be the dawning death upon mortals that forever they were as direct as one could be – time was scares but I was not used to it.

“I don’t know. I truly do not. Rumil was my mate assigned by fate – Legolas I chose. Who weighs more? Who do I love more? I could not tell you – therefore I chose to stay in middle earth.”

“So, you postpone the decision.”

“I am not the first to have it, I will find a solution – but for now, I chose to be here.”

The benches tumbled and tumbled full of people. I watched Legolas down beer after beer, looking more consternated than before.

“There is a slight tingle in my fingers – I think it is affecting me.” He turned his hands before his eyes, looking at them, whilst Gimli dropped off the bench senseless. He raised an eyebrow at his companion, looking at the blond man with the barrels behind him.

“I won.” He stated drily, more than one human cheering readily, gobbling over the table. I pushed off the column and excused myself, keeping my eyes on the elf, a smile spreading over my face, before I stepped next to him, watching the dwarf passed out. His arm scooted around my waist and pulled me against his chest, which made the men around him cheer ever louder. Legolas grinned.

“Do I now get groped by a drunkard?” I asked playfully.

“Oh, I do not need to be a drunkard for me to grope you.” He spun me in his hands, so I stood on the other side of him, holding onto me tightly as I placed a hand on his chest.

“Step outside with me?” I asked.

.

“After the war – will you marry me? When it is all over – when your duty is done?” I asked, looking at my lover with calm eyes, as he watched the stars course over the night sky. The moon shone bright tonight; the wind rutted through our clothes. He turned his figure, and I stepped closer, so I could look up to him. He did not answer, but wrapping his arms around me, before he pressed his lips onto mine.

“Ask me again, when the war is over?” He plead and I accepted. I would. And all that shone upon us that day were the moon and the stars and the sky of Rohan.

\-------------------

If you find any mistakes, they are my own and please point them out to me, so I can fix them. I let the story follow the paths of the movies, but as it is often, books and movies entwine and it becomes impossible to tell apart. I hope you enjoy nonetheless. 

[1] Since when do you like dwarfs?

[2] Somewhere along the way.

[3] protect, nurture, live, bless these souls!


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